


Me Too

by Sang_argente



Series: it pays to tell the truth [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (also one brief mention of a dude perving on underage sam), First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Truth Spells, Unrepentant Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8230918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sang_argente/pseuds/Sang_argente
Summary: Dean thinks they're in a good place right now, what with their own home and no end of the world on the horizon. No sense borrowing trouble.

  But of course Sam has to ruin that. Of course he does.
(aka the one where Sam is cursed to tell the truth and feelings happen)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fic_obsessed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fic_obsessed/gifts).



Okay, so maybe in the beginning Dean hadn't really noticed anything strange. For a while there he thought Sam was just in one of his moods. The constant reminders were just a mark under the Sam Is Stressed column of Dean's mental table of Sam's emotional state. After thirty some odd years, it was a reflex action to check the facts against the table. The thing hadn't failed him before.

When Sam suggests a vacation, Dean eagerly agrees but is panicking on the inside. Hesitation, suggesting time off, these things fall under Sam Is Scared. The thing is, Dean thinks to himself as he's filling the cooler with beer, Sam shouldn't be scared. Their last few hunts were standard stuff, minus the episode with the witch almost two weeks ago. If Sam's scared, that means Dean missed something which means he's been slacking.

_Take care of Sammy._

Still, Dean pushes it away. They're in a good place right now, what with their own home and no end of the world on the horizon. No sense borrowing trouble.

Or that's what Dean keeps telling himself until another salt and burn goes by. Too far from the bunker, they'd decided to grab a room at some no-tell motel off the highway. Dean's on his bed kicking his boots off and silently lamenting over his memory foam mattress tucked away at the bunker, but otherwise pretty content.

Of course Sam has to ruin that. Of course he does.

“Y’know,” Sam drawls, seemingly as an afterthought as he slides into his own bed. “I've always liked hunting with you, Dean. It's been great.”

Dean nearly breaks his neck as he whips around to stare at his brother. He barely catches a quick glimpse of the panic on Sam's face, knows it matches the disbelief on his own, before his little bitch of a brother flips over and fakes sleep for the next forty minutes. He knows, he keeps count.

He has to, to be honest. Sitting there in that dreary little room, his ass barely denting the rock hard mattress and his heart threatening to pound out of his chest, Dean counts every minute until Sam finally started snoring. The soft little huffs and whines that Dean has been listening to his entire life reassure him that Sam is there. He's not dead, he's not leaving. He's just going through some stuff.

Dean rolls his eyes and practically throws himself at his pillow. Obviously Sam is going through some stuff. He adds about five tally marks to the Sam Is Stressed column and, after remembering the panic in Sam's eyes, five more to the Sam Is Scared column. He forces himself to fall asleep before he can start weighing the whole table.

It's forgotten- well not really forgotten but floating in the back of Dean's mind without being thought of- for about two days. Two days of radio silence, Dean quietly freaking out and Sam attached to his laptop for whatever reason.

It's two days until, over sad looking sandwiches that Sam barely picks at, Sam sends his heart into overdrive yet again.

“I ran away to flagstaff for two weeks because I was scared of the looks dad’s hunting buddy was giving me,” he says quietly, not looking up from the mess of meat and cheese and soggy bread on his plate.

“Sam, what the hell,” Dean chokes out, throat scratched by the chip that twisted with his heart.

Sam shrugs and keeps tearing at the sandwich, bread practically mush under his nimble fingers. The meat’s not far behind.

“I was fifteen,” he says in that same hushed, please-don't-ask voice. “You were gone with Caleb and Dad was...well, you know how Dad was.”

And Dean does know. He remembers with the vividness born of pain. There was a reason he'd taken Caleb up on his offer of a werewolf hunt two states away and it had a lot to do with how deep in the bottle Dad had gotten that year. He'd been nineteen and, like all nineteen year olds, not exactly that concerned with his little brother. Sam could take care of himself, he threw out every time Caleb asked. At least, until he'd gotten home and Sam had already been gone for three days. Then it became a desperate plea, a fervent prayer.

Sam glances up and nods at his expression before tucking his head back down.

“Dad kept saying...He kept saying _Ronny will look after you son_ ,” Sam said gruffly, a pale imitation of their father's whiskey soaked voice. “And he was, but not the way he should've been. I knew you would be home soon so I was just gonna take it but...he was helping me learn a new stance with Dad and I could feel- I felt- I left that night.”

Dean can't take it anymore. He just can't sit there another minute and listen to his brother, his baby brother, tell him he ran away and lost fifteen pounds and nearly died of pneumonia because of some pervert that their dad was too drunk to keep away. He goes to the kitchen, knows Sam can hear him banging around and is probably scared to death, but he can't. Instead, he makes another sandwich and carries it out to his baby brother. This one is tall, made with the thick seven or nine or twelve grain bread Sam likes with thin slices of turkey covered by tomato and cucumber and a somewhat overripe avocado Dean found in the back of the fridge.

He sets the plate down by the one holding something not even recognizable as food anymore. Then, he lays a hand on Sam's tense shoulder and waits for him to look up.

“I'm glad,” He says fiercely, staring down into the frightened eyes of his fifteen thirty year old brother. “Sammy, I'm glad. I don't care what I said back then. I didn't know. Now I do. Listen to me, I would rather you run off a million times and squat in a million different run down cabins and adopt a million different flea bitten mutts than have some pervert put his hands on you. You did the right thing.”

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam whispers before he pulls the plate closer and finally eats.

And Dean heaves a sigh in relief, thinking they're good.

Sam slips out with, “I started dating Jess after she punched me in the face and called me a creep,” two days later and he knows they're not.

He lets him spill it all out anyway, keeping his expression calm and nonjudgmental. It hurts to hear Sam- Sammy, his baby brother, his reason for being- say all these hurtful things about himself but he sits there and listens anyway. It's one hell of a curse Sam's gotten hit with and if he has to pull every dark secret out of his soul and throw it out for Dean to see, the least Dean can do is pretend it's not killing him.

But it is, in a way. All those secrets tear at his heart, remind him not of Sam's failures through the years but his own. He was supposed to take care of him and every vision, every demon fuck, every soul lost, every friend turned traitor, is another way Dean failed.

He should've supported Sam more, back when the visions were tearing his mind in half and Azazel was the biggest threat they could imagine. He should've made sure Sam knew it was him or them and he was always supposed to choose him. Maybe that would've saved him in Cold Oak. Not because Dean regrets making the deal, but because it left Sam vulnerable to Ruby. He should've been there, then and when Lucifer was whispering in Sam's ear. He should've trusted Sam when he got back from the Cage. Soulless or not, it was still Sam. After that mess, he should've kicked Castiel to the curb, not held him close to knock away the one thing holding Sam together. He should've made sure Sam knew he was loved, so very loved.

Maybe then they wouldn't be sitting here like this, torn apart by confession.

_Because I love you. I'm in love with you._

The words were ringing through Dean's head, slamming against every thought in his mind along with Sam's face. For just a second it had been blissful, love and honesty and freedom lighting up Sam's already beautiful face. It was obvious to Dean that the curse had been lifted, presumably falling away with Sam's deepest darkest secret. 

Then the fear set in.

It was the same fear Sam felt at fifteen, Dean imagines detachedly. Fear for rough hands and angry words. And, like weeks ago, he can't let his precious brother feel like that.

“Sammy-”

“Don't,” Sam snaps, pulling away from the bookcase he'd been leisurely snooping through before this last secret. “Just don't, Dean. Please, just forget it.”

“I can't,” Dean says in a tortured voice. He can feel the words bubbling up inside him, imagines this is what it must have felt like for Sam these past few months. He's not sure if the curse has hit him or he's just physically incapable of leaving his brother in pain. Either way, it's time for the truth.

“Please,” Sam says again, begs really, his hands caught on the shelf and curled until the skin of his knuckles is bone white. “Please.”

Stepping forward, Dean lays a trembling hand on Sam's shoulder, tugging gently. “Sammy, look at me.”

A sob tears itself out of Sam's throat but he turns around, looks at Dean with a pale, tear-stained face. 

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean sighs, his heart aching at the sight. He slides his hand up Sam's neck and over his face, gently brushing the tears away. “It's okay.”

Sam's shaking his head, his face set in the same stubborn pout he held when he was four and they'd accidentally left his stuffed dog two hundred miles away. That was the end of the world then and Dean can see in bluegoldgreen that this is the end of the world now and he just can't.

“Sssh,” he sighs out as he leans forward. His lips brush against Sam's softly, chapped skin catching against chapped skin. It's dry and barely there, but it's the best kiss of Dean's life and he's been waiting almost forty years for it.

He can feel Sam shaking against him, little tremors in the knees knocking against his own and the hands pressing against his chest.

“It's alright, Sam,” Dean whispers, licking his lips as he looks at Sam. There's a shine in his eyes and a flush on his cheeks and he's the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen. “It's alright, Sammy. We're okay.”

“I've been waiting my whole life for that,” Sam blurts out, the red deepening and spreading up to his ears. He's still shaking, but his fingers are curled into the soft flannel of Dean's shirt and he takes it as the invitation it's meant to be.

“Me too, sweetheart,” Dean says quietly, leaning in again. The second and third and fourth kisses are soft and slow and steals the breath right out of his lungs. He decides then, with Sam's arms around his neck and his hair tickling his cheek, to just stop counting. Who cares how many there are, as long as they keep coming.

_Me too._

**Author's Note:**

> So once upon a time I wrote a fic for wincest love week where Sam was cursed to tell the truth and left it unresolved. Four days ago, [fic_obsessed ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fic_obsessed/pseuds/fic_obsessed) reminded me of this fic and I decided I just couldn't leave it open ended anymore. This is the extremely fluffy result.
> 
> For more fluffy wincest, hit me up on [tumblr.](http://delicatesammy.tumblr.com)


End file.
